


Laughs

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, PWP, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2056437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a quick romp in the morgue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughs

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Heads, this isn't historically accurate.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

One second her hands are buried in a man’s open chest, and the next they’re thrown around William’s neck, and she tries to keep her fingers off his collar so she doesn’t stain it with blood. Mrs. Kitchen doubtless does all the laundry; William doesn’t seem to realize how difficult it is to get blood stains out of your clothes if you aren’t accustomed to it—something Julia would know.

But then the kisses keep going, even when she means them to stop, means to get back to her work, and even as she turns away, he’s running his teeth along her jaw. Despite all his ingenious inventions and cutting-edge discoveries, Julia never quite expects William to try anything new in _this_ area, this unprofessional, wild transgression they fall so easily into. The bible says nothing about biting. But he’s nipping at her skin all the same, and when his open mouth clamps against her throat, Julia knows she’s done for. 

She lets out a breathy, “William,” and lets her reddened fingers thread into his hair. She pulls at it to signal that she wants to keep him rough, and he’s sucking at her neck and pushing her, his large hands secure around her waist. He holds her so easily—brains and brawn, even if he doesn’t know it. She can feel his strength rippling before her, and she lets one hand roam down his back, smoothing over his broad shoulders. He’s walking forward and taking her with him, and she’s stumbling to follow, heels lost between his bigger strides. He kisses back up to her mouth and she’s lost again; she presses back to claim him just as fiercely. 

Her back slams into the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough for a solid jolt; she gasps against his mouth and makes fists in his hair and suit. He wears too many layers. Her perfect gentleman. She claws at the dark fabric of his jacket and wants him to touch her _more_.

He obliges.

It’s taken a bit of training. A lot of this—kissing and touching and her holding onto him and promising that she wants everything he has, she really does, doesn’t care if any of it’s proper. Usually it takes more coaxing to make him so bold, but today, his hands are already on her skirt, hiking up the mountains of fabric. Julia doesn’t know what she said, what she did to start this. They were talking about the case. She was discussing the autopsy. He’s going to leave here with fingermarks and bloodstains and the smell of her perfume, and everyone’s going to know he was hers. 

He runs his palms down to cup her ass, and Julia makes a muffled crooning noise into his mouth, wishing there were fewer clothes between their skin. He holds the smooth curve and slides below it, kneading her and pulling back to murmur, “Julia—”

But they rarely need more than that: she knows what to do. She pulls him tighter to her and jumps, catching her legs around his waist. He startles and holds her, pinning her hard against the wall to balance her weight. The mess of material between them is ridiculous, but William slides one hand beneath her skirts and works at pulling her drawers down her thighs. Julia squeezes around his waist and can’t feel him directly, but she has all the signs. His hips are jutting forward and he’s almost stumbling in his efforts and he’s breathless and relentless in his kisses. He _wants her_ just as badly.

She makes him use protection, even if she can’t have his child. She knows it’s unusual to ask, to insist, but she wouldn’t be _Julia Ogden_ if she didn’t, and he wouldn’t love her so much. He pulls away from her to fish in the inside pocket off his coat, and she laughs, then bites her lip and looks sheepish. But he smiles at her knowingly. She wonders if he brought it just for today or if he keeps one there now, just in case. She doesn’t offer to help, because she enjoys watching: he lets go over her, and she holds on tighter, while he opens his pants and pulls himself out, covering the handsome view a moment later with the condom. He looks at her as though to ask, even though there’s already no going back, and she’s so wet already, always is for him. 

He puts one hand beneath her disheveled drawers anyway. He presses into her, his palm warm against her searing flesh, and Julia makes a piteous noise and clutches at his shoulders. He rubs against her, slowly and inexpert, but she’ll train him, she knows. Right now, they’re so _natural_ , but William is still _William_ , and he’s polite and respectful and inexperienced, even if he is so _good_ at everything he tries. He presses one finger between her moist lips, and her thighs are trembling. She pulls him into more kisses. She pushes his face away with her nose and bites his jaw harder than he did; she has makeup around and she’ll cover up the bruises. 

He withdraws his hands, grabs her hips instead, presses forward, and Julia can barely see what’s happening beneath the many folds of her rolled-up skirt, but she trusts him. He mumbles, husky, “Ready?”

She has to lick her lips before she can manage, “Yes.” She nods, and he kisses her before she’s done the movement, pushing inside at the same time. Julia’s cry is swallowed up in his mouth. She wraps herself around him. He goes slowly, and the breach makes her quiver, the walls of her insides reacting with fervor, gripping him and wanting to suck him deeper. He goes so torturously slowly. She wants to buck forward, take him all at once, consequences be damned, but he’s holding her too steady. She wants to tell him she doesn’t care if it hurts: she wants to be taken _now_. But she’s too busy struggling for air and burying her face in his neck to form the words. He smells like cologne and the musk of raw _man_. 

By the time he’s all the way in, Julia’s near tears. She’s dizzy with need. William presses a kiss to her cheek, and she knows, like every other time he’s kissed her, that this is the man meant for her. Every other one she’s had was a lacking facsimile. There won’t ever be anyone else. Not like this. He’s draped over her, breathing hard, adjusting, and she has to push at his shoulders and beg, “William, _move._ ”

He takes to instructions well. She squeezes as he pulls part way out, half because she doesn’t want to lose him and half because she loves the desperation it puts on his face. Then he slams back inside, and Julia cries out again, can’t help it, reaches her arm around his shoulders and covers her own mouth. He pulls it away to kiss her, and he thrusts into her again. He’s half out a second later, slamming back in to fill her. He rolls into a smooth, steady pace so exactingly _William_ : methodical but passionate. She moves with his rhythm and nuzzles into him when she’s too light-headed to kiss. He litters her in harder kisses and sweet pecks, all infused with love, and she can feel the adoration he presses into her so sharply. His love is an aphrodisiac. He holds her and touches her and claims her so wildly but tenderly that she knows he wants to do everything he can to take them to _one_. He believes in her as absolutely as she trusts in him. 

And still she wonders, can’t help it, _why._ What did she do to deserve this? Not in the broader, physiological sense—she’s worked hard in her life and earned a man like him, and she doesn’t have the wherewithal to ponder broad things right now. But why _now_ , and as he slides into her again, she gathers her fleeting breath and manages to gasp, “W... William... what prompted this...?” Not that she needs an excuse.

“Your joke,” he tells her briskly, in between kisses along her cheek. He takes one hand away from her waist to brush her long braid over her shoulder. Her hair was already a mess, but now it’ll be worse. She can already feel stray hairs clinging to her forehead with the gathering sweat. The morgue is cool, but they’re wearing so many darn clothes, and William’s so _hot._ Julia has to wrack her brain for what she said—some silly pun about the dead man (supposedly having hung himself) being too _hung up_ on the woman William suspects. A particularly hard thrust throws Julia off her train of thought, and she has to will away the fog in her head. 

She doesn’t understand why he’d react this way. It was just a silly pun. But he slips his hands back under her skirt to clutch her spread thighs, and he holds her close and murmurs next to her ear, “You’re _so_ cute.”

Julia almost laughs. Cute? That’s a new one. At least, for William’s vocabulary. But she’ll more than take it. She wants to be cute for him; be beautiful, handsome, adorable: everything. Her fingers play in his hair as she turns his face towards her. She catches his bottom lip in her teeth and tugs it and can’t help but breathe, “You never laugh at my jokes.” 

He looks like he might apologize. His face is scrunched up, and she knows he’s close. He presses his forehead against hers. They stay like that, so she can look into his eyes, while he takes her over and over, driving them both near the edge. Then he gathers her up and lunges into her: a fierce, crushing hug that shoves him so deep inside her she thinks she’ll burst. He buries his face in the crook of her neck. Her breasts are squished against his chest, fighting her corset, all the air flattened out of her. He hisses, full of conviction, “ _I love you_.” 

Then he’s toppling over the edge. The condom holds in his release, but she can feel the orgasm under his skin, see it in the tension of his face and hear it in his muffled scream. She doesn’t know if it’s that or the words that push her, but she’s falling only a moment after him. He’s not thrusting anymore, just grinding, and she convulses around it and loses her ability to see and think and breathe. The world washes over white. She might be screaming. She clings to him desperately, body wracked with unimaginable _pleasure_.

It takes her several dizzying seconds to come around. When he pulls out of her, she’s not sure she wants him to go. She feels empty without him, and her body shudders where he left. He holds her gently, and together, slowly, they slip down the wall. Her bottom lands on his knees, her legs still spread around him. She doesn’t let go of him. He slumps against her, resting against her shoulder, and she pets his hair and leans her cheek against his. 

A few quiet moments later of just the warm afterglow and the stench of sex, Julia sighs, “I love you too, William.” He pulls off her shoulder to smile at her: utterly radiant. 

He kisses her chastely, and afterwards, she mumbles, “I knew you liked my humour.”

Finally, he laughs.


End file.
